


love it if we made it

by heavensfallingaroundus



Series: bits and bobs [5]
Category: Actor RPF, British Actor RPF, Game of Thrones RPF, Rocketman (2019) RPF
Genre: A proper quarantine fic, Because We All Need It, Boys In Love, Choking, Lots of wanking, M/M, Phone Calls, Richard Madden's bionic cock, Richard Madden's superhero body, Richard is in LA and almost permanently horny, Taron is single and ready to mingle, You're Welcome, You've been warned, also he's ripped AF, divergence from the sad reality of things, like some serious choking, sweet service-y sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2020-05-17
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:21:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23952982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heavensfallingaroundus/pseuds/heavensfallingaroundus
Summary: A short but long but still short tale of quarantine, long distance, phone calls, and that general sense oflonging.The kind that hits you unexpectedly one late afternoon, and never lets you go.You know the one.
Relationships: Taron Egerton/Richard Madden
Series: bits and bobs [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1668343
Comments: 147
Kudos: 105





	1. oh it's ok, lots of people think I'm gay / but we're friends, so it's cool, why would it not be?

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, I don't know what this is.
> 
> All I can say is that I have, once again, tried to fix it. Probably failed miserably. Anywho, read the tags for context. It's all in there.
> 
> Enjoy. I guess?

It starts one afternoon in April. 

Taron’s just out of a steaming shower that smells like the South of France—rose and lavender and a touch of honey—and the podcast he’s been listening to lately, that was on for the duration of his time under the spray, cuts off; his phone starts insolently vibrating on the side of the sink. 

Still naked and dripping, he scrambles for a towel to avoid making a mess in the small bathroom. Then, with his feet firmly planted on the shower carpet, he shimmies from the shower to the sink to check who’s calling. 

It’s number he doesn’t know, but he still picks it up. 

“Hello?” 

“Hello, you.” 

(The prefix might say Murica, but the voice at the end of the line quite unmistakeably spells out Caledonia.) 

Taron feels himself smile broadly—involuntary, mechanical reaction. Brings his free hand up to his mouth and glances down at his chest as he deliberately feigns ignorance. Bites lightly on the side of his index finger, smiles some more. 

“I’m sorry, who is this, please?” 

His cheek is met with a sunshine cackle and a couple of endearing expletives, which Taron reciprocates—and also, what the fuck has Richard done with his phone and why is he calling from a number Taron doesn’t know. 

Richard, ever the clumsy sod, turns out to have dropped a particularly hefty kettlebell on it. Not clear if on purpose or not, but it definitely did the job of smashing the thing to pieces—and fuck up the SIM card in the process, too. Hence, new phone, new number. 

“Is that why you’ve been so quiet, lately?” Taron asks, when he’s done laughing at Richard’s misfortunes, very much enjoying himself but also partial to moving the conversation topic away from bloody handheld devices. 

He acknowledges himself in the mirror—turquoise towel around his waist that reminds him of being fifteen and getting dragged by his mam to the Peacocks homewares section; hair way too long; droplets falling from his quiff to his forehead, trickling from his forehead to his cheeks, pooling at the corners of his mouth; chest slightly red. Possibly from the scalding water. Most likely because of Richard’s voice. 

“Wasn’t sure,” Richard says, simply. An almost imperceptible shift in his confident, playful tone, that Taron immediately picks up. “Didn’t know where... _who_ you’d be with. Then I saw your Instagram story and you mentioned being home with your family and all that, so I thought… I thought you wouldn’t be with—” Richard pauses, dramatically. Almost as if he couldn’t bring himself to speak the name. 

“Emily?” Taron offers. 

Richard hums in assent. 

“Yeah, no, she’s not here, mate. You can say her name, by the way, you know? She might ‘ave broken up with me, but she’s not Voldemort.” He guffaws at his own dumb analogy. “What I mean is—don’t worry about it. S’all good. It was long overdue, anyways.” 

“How’re you feeling?” 

“Much better. I wasn’t happy. Wasn’t making _her_ happy. All in all, it was for the best.” 

That light fog—that momentaneous awkwardness that had appeared between them—dissipates instantaneously, and they go on talking of everything and nothing. Taron paces back and forth throughout the whole thing, barefoot on the tiled floor, occasionally lingering on the warm spot next to the radiator. Like the cat usually does. 

After a while, just as he’s regretting not having put his Fitbit back on—so all that nervous treading from the bathroom door to the shower times a hundred would have counted for something—his towel drops to the floor, leaving him starkers. 

He very quickly finds he doesn’t much care. Richard’s telling him about some new series he’s been binging in the past couple of days, what he’s going to eat for lunch, and that he’s thinking of fostering a puppy. Also, and most importantly, that his dress shirts apparently don’t fit his shoulders and upper arms anymore. 

Taron gulps, at that, and he stops for a beat to glance at himself in the mirror once again. It’s his cheeks that are flushed, this time, and he distinctly feels electricity flickering in every corner of his brain. 

(Unprompted, Richard decides to show him. Close-up shot of his bicep in a crisp white shirt; a gash in the fabric; pale, freckled skin underneath; a single vein discreetly peeking through, pale blue and bulging just slightly; _know a good tailor?_ ) 

A string of sparks slowly streams down his spine, fairy lights unravelling down his chest, his stomach, his groin. That lazy, half-dormant-but-definitely-there kind of arousal, slowly simmering in his lower belly. 

An animalistic response. Something that he’s used to repress—done it for months and months. He presently realises he doesn’t _have_ to, anymore. So, he embraces it. 

“As a matter of fact, I do know a good tailor,” he replies, flirtatiously. 

“Colin Firth doesn’t count.” 

When they say goodbye, Taron has to get back in the shower. 

He’s dramatically late for dinner. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case it wasn't obvious, there are two things I've been obsessed with lately:  
> \- Richard Madden's insane body  
> \- Colin Firth
> 
> Somehow can't be arsed with notes for once in my life. I still love you though, I swear.
> 
> Stay tuned for more.


	2. I've been wearing nothing every time I call you / and I’m starting to feel weird about it

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s always something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quite a weird one, today, folks.

Just once a day, at first. 

A proper routine—lunch, nap, run (when he can be bothered), shower, Richard.

Polite banter. Taking stock. How’s Richard’s morning going, how’s Taron’s day been. What’s for brekkie, what’s for dinner, and _whatever unpronounceable dish that is and whatever’s in it, can you ask your mam to send me some—and tell her I miss her, too?_

Richard does get the puppy. She’s a German shepherd with a wee little head and massive ears that she’s yet to grow into. In short, she’s the most beautiful thing Taron’s ever seen. 

“Something tells me this whole fostering thing won’t end up working for you, Madden.” 

“Honestly, Taron, I really don’t know what you mean.” 

Taron shakes his head as he walks around his childhood bedroom. He can’t sit still, when he’s on the phone with Richard. 

Also, he’s naked again. For some reason. It’s a mystery, really—Richard _always_ seems to catch him without his clothes on. 

(Hardly a coincidence. It’s been three days, now, and Richard’s consistently phoned around the same time. Taron just feels it’s better for his guilty conscience to let his internal monologue slip into mildly-unreliable-narrator mode.) 

“Don’t know what I mean? Right, so. Let me ask you just one question. Does she have a name, Dickie?” 

“If you must know, yes, she does—but only because I was bullied into giving her one.” The grin in Richard’s voice, coupled with low and distant puppy snarling, is possibly the most endearing thing Taron’s ever—heard? Felt? Seen? Not sure anymore. Richard, living eight hours in the past and an ocean away, feels somehow more palpable than ever, these days. 

“Go on, then. I’ve got a little idea, but I want to hear it from the hor— _wolf_ ’s mouth,” Taron says, collapsing on his queen bed and feeling his face flush with colour as he glances at the band and movie posters plastered all over the walls and ceiling. 

A few seconds of loud silence at the end of the line. Then a reluctant, grumbly Richard delivers the answer Taron had been anticipating. “Nymeria.” 

“Bugger. Really wish I’d bet money on that.” 

“Fuck off.” 

“Who was it, then? Who pushed for it? Maisie?” 

“You wouldn’t believe it.” 

“I reckon I would. Try me.” 

“Kit.” 

“Oh, duh. Silly me.” 

They talk about Kit, and Richard sounds as fond of the man as he ever does. He touches on extremely innocent topics—filming _Eternals_ back in January, late night pints, walking home together at the crack of dawn. And yet, somehow, this harmless banter ends up titillating Taron’s brain. That corner of it that’s permanently ready and on edge, that is. That black hole, dense with the gravity of his wretched imagination. That elephant graveyard where, especially when it comes to Richard, all decency goes to die. 

While Richard’s still talking about Kit’s eyes on him while he was being lifted into the air via an infinite set of cables, Taron nods and hums and pictures all sorts of things underneath his shut eyelids. Vaguely recalls a drunken night spent with Kit while they were filming _Testament of Youth_ together—what feels like a hundred years ago—when Kit had told him all about Richard. Even detailed the wonders of Richard’s hands and mouth and tongue. How loud and outspoken and _filthy_ Richard was underneath that coy boy façade—Kit had said, licking salt off the back of his hand and downing a tequila shot. He had then closed his delicious, plump lips around a wedge of lemon, and smirked.

(Taron had let his mind race back then as well. Pictures of Richard and Kit going at it like rabbits swirling blurrily in his head. He’d adjusted the bulge in his jeans, nodded intently, and smiled. _Really need to introduce us, some day. Sounds like a cracking fella._ Taron had then ordered two more margaritas and the bill, and snogged Kit in a back alley. The pauper shagging the prince.) 

He ends up hard and heavy in record time. Leaking all over his naked belly. _Aching_.

Unable to help himself, he skims two idle fingers over the side of his cock and breathes sharply through his clenched teeth. 

“Something wrong, T?” 

“N-no, all good, mate. Just.” Breathes in, out. Fully grabs himself. Lets his hips roll, back arching and arse pressing into the mattress. Thrusting against his palm. “Dinner’s ready.” 

“Better let you go, then. Speak tomorrow, eh?” 

“Tomorrow,” Taron breathes. “Ta-ra, sweet’eart.” 

It’s always something. Today, it’s Richard’s voice and Kit’s name on Richard’s lips and the beautiful curve of his vibrating dildo against that perfect spot inside him. When he’s finished (twice over) he feels enlightened but weird as fuck. 

By the time he gets downstairs, his entire family are already halfway through their sticky toffee puddings. 

He skips dinner altogether. 

His stepdad looks him up and down, then pours him a double Scotch. 

He sleeps more soundly than he has in weeks. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, you know what? No idea.


	3. maybe I would like you better if you took off your clothes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s fine. Richard doesn’t _need_ to know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Taron is ~~bordering on~~ desperate.

It’s really just calls, at first. 

Just Richard’s voice—velvet smooth and whisky warm inside Taron’s bloodstream. 

The brogue is thicker than usual, too, if at all possible. It’s as if Richard’s body is fighting LA, rejecting it like an incompatible replacement organ. 

Just his voice. And yet, it does it for Taron. Heavens, it does so _much_. 

For a couple of days, it’s more than enough. 

Then, Richard asks to see him. Just casual, one day. “Miss your face.” And that’s when it clicks for Taron—perhaps, Richard’s voice is not enough after all. 

“You do know these metal, glass and plastic thingies have cameras, don’t you, Dickie?” 

He half-considers replying to Richard’s request to switch to a video call without putting a top on first—but he quickly remembers that, despite his best efforts to keep in more or less decent shape, he’s been having quite a lot of cake and pastries lately, and the exercise hasn’t quite kept up with indulgent afternoon grubs and comfort hot dinners, courtesy of his lovely mam. 

(He’s got to go be Eggsy again, when and if this will ever be over. Matthew will have his cock and balls for letting himself go, he just knows.) 

Point being, Taron is carrying a bit more than he’s used to, and he’s hardly a match for a certain national treasure, drop-dead gorgeous Olympic diver that Richard seems to favour on Instagram lately. Therefore, he quickly resolves to pick a forest green shirt from the pile of clean clothes that just seem to be slowly accumulating on his desk chair—they just won’t iron, fold or put away themselves, for some bizarre reason—and throws it on, completing what he already deems an absolutely red-carpet-worthy look with a pair of boxers. 

No trousers, though. 

It’s fine. Richard doesn’t _need_ to know. 

For his part, Richard is quite gloriously shirtless. Dark, thick chest hair. Long, long ginger beard flecked with the occasional specks of silver. Ice and fire. Unruly curls framing his face. He looks like Robb Stark—that is, if Robb Stark had lived long enough to fully grow into the wonderful creature currently gracing Taron’s phone screen, the one with the fucking grey streak and the damned lines in the corners of his eyes. The one with the piercing blue eyes and the devilish ivory smile. The one with the raspy Gaelic voice saying things like _look at you, Duckie_ and _love you in those glasses, Elton_ and just generally making Taron blush to the roots of his hair. 

He lies on his bed, because Richard’s doing the same, and because like this he can discreetly palm himself through the light cotton of his boxers and imagine it’s _Richard_ doing it—Richard hovering over him, Richard between his legs, Richard tracing the outline of his cock with his long fingers and with his tongue, Richard— 

He zones out mid-sentence—something about a fruit and veg delivery his mam got a few hours ago, biggest fucking courgettes he’s ever seen in his life—and doesn’t notice Richard rolling his eyes and chuckling at him. It takes Nymeria’s distant but loud barking to snap him out of it. By the time he’s done picturing Richard going down on him, she’s joined Richard on the bed and snuggled under his big, big arm, nestled in his embrace. 

When he meets them again, Richard’s eyes are smiling. 

“Where did ye go, there, you big weirdo?” 

Taron tugs on his lower lip. Maybe he should just tell Richard. 

“Sorry, just—” 

“I really do miss ye, y’know,” Richard interrupts him, as he brings his forearm across his chest and lets his fingers sink into the soft-looking fur on the puppy’s head, not so subtly flexing his absolutely ridiculous, shirt-destroying upper arm in the process. 

Taron blinks. It takes everything in him not to space out again. 

(On the bed, lying on his front; Richard on top of him, buried deep, deep; the loud, ungodly sound of Richard’s hips smacking Taron’s arse as he presses himself flush against it, hips snapping meticulously, making Taron writhe and whine; hot breath against Taron’s ear; that arm looped around Taron's neck; the bulge of that bicep against Taron’s Adam’s apple—) 

“I miss you too." _So fucking much._

Richard’s eyes flicker and he mirrors Taron’s lip biting. Splays his hand over the side of the puppy’s body, caressing her from top to bottom, and then closes his fingers it into a slack fist. 

A vein in his forearm pops, causing a single jolt of electricity to thrill through Taron, from the base of his cock to the tip. 

Taron doesn’t remember how the rest of the conversation goes. 

He does, however, recall the end of it. 

“Dunno how cold it is in Aber but… Maybe you could lose the shirt, tomorrow, eh?” A wink, a side smile. That goddamn lip biting again. 

Taron can’t think of a snappy remark to throw back at Richard. He doesn’t want to, either. 

He just nods, then. He dear God hopes he doesn’t really look quite as smug as what he’s seeing in the feedback image of his own front camera. Second thought says what the fuck, though. After all, even if he does, it’s not like Richard’s not aware he’s desperate, anyways. 

He proceeds to be late for dinner for the sixth night in a row. 


	4. I need to get back / I've got to see the boy on the screen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Are you...?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know the drill—Unnecessarily Pretentious Porn™.
> 
> Proceed with caution.

The next day, all that Taron wants to do is lie in bed and edge himself with hands and fingers and toys until he finally gets on the fucking video call and ask Richard if he can please, please, _please_ tell him that he’s been good, and that he’s allowed to come.

What ends up happening instead is a family hike to Penglais Nature Park, complete with a sumptuous picnic under an uncharacteristically scorching sun. Ham sandwiches and too-sweet fizzy drinks. Strawberries and cream for pudding, like it’s bloody Wimbledon. The pungent smell of iodine and a cool gust coming from the sea bringing him back to life.

They linger more than planned. It gets late. Richard calls him halfway through the hike back, and he almost picks up—that eager, mechanical gesture—but doesn’t, in the end, because he’s got a hunch that what will appear on the screen won’t be appropriate for a young and impressionable audience.

 _sorry, just getting back_ , he texts Richard after declining the call.

 ** _chop-chop_** , Richard texts back.

_on a schedule, are we?_

**_as if you didn’t know_ **

Whatever that means.

Fucking hell.

Taron can’t be sure, but he’s arbitrarily decided that the universe owes him one, so he’s swinging it and assuming it means what he wants it to mean. Assuming that Richard—

 _want you_ , he sends out.

And he’s right of course.

By the time he closes his bedroom door behind him, in fact, his phone is full of risqué pictures of Richard’s half-naked body, his heart is going a hundred miles an hour, and his loose hiking shorts can barely contain his throbbing cock.

When, one full minute later, Taron does get to speak to Richard, his head’s propped up on three pillows and he’s naked as the day he was born.

Richard—well, the bits of him Taron can see, anyways—looks flustered. Hair quite uncharacteristically a mess, deep blue eyes dark and hungry, teeth digging into his lower lip—that ripe fruit that Taron just aches to bite into (something he has done a few times, something he kind of wants to be doing for the rest of his days, please?)—a delicate veil of perspiration on his forehead and cheeks, chest heaving softly. An absolutely _wicked_ half smirk on his face.

“Took you long enough,” Richard murmurs, deep and husky, subtly moving his phone away a tad more still, exposing the whole of his naked torso. Nipples that look like they’ve been pinched and tainted, chest hair dark and glorious, the delicate curve of his upper abs peeking from the lower end of the screen.

A desperate moan escapes Taron’s lips before he can catch it.

“I’m—I’m sorry, Richard.”

Richard chuckles, sucking in a sharp breath and briefly closing his eyes, head gently rolling back into his pillow.

“Just messing with ye, Duckie. Just wanted to see you. Fuck, you look…”

“…like I’ve ‘ad way too much cheese and chocolate and ‘aven’t exercised enough?” Taron offers, interrupting him, smiling weakly as his cheeks flush crimson.

Taron _has_ gained weight. Some days, he bloody loves it. Some days, he looks in the mirror and feels very fucking self-conscious about it.

Either way, when Richard Madden asks if you would mind terribly getting your kit off for him, and you really, really don’t mind that, not one bit, in fact—well, you simply do it. No questions asked.

“Don’t you dare,” Richard growls, wolfish and fierce. “Don’t you _bloody_ dare. You look fine as fuck, is what I meant to say. _Ravishing_ , is a word that comes…”

Pause.

(Strategic? Surely not. Richard is better than this. Double entendre is _so_ not on brand. That’s more Taron’s brand, if anything.)

And yet.

Soft moan.

Teeth tugging on his lower lip more vehemently still.

Taron’s cock twitches. Actually bloody does. Lifts a few millimetres from where it’s rested, hot and hard and heavy on his lower belly, then plops back down, wetting his skin with precome.

“…to mind.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Taron breathes, sighing deeply as he fully closes his fingers tight around his aching cock at last. Richard wants this as much as he does, it seems, and that’s just— “You’re a fucking work of art yourself, may I just say.”

Richard blushes at that. A delicate flush on his cheeks, trickling down to his neck and chest.

(Taron watches it happen and can’t help but think it extremely rude that the skin there almost begs to be bitten and sucked onto, yet they’re an ocean away, and it’s condemned to stay untarnished, untouched, unbruised. What a waste of a perfect canvas, really.)

And then it’s instantaneous—Richard smiles his wondrous porcelain smile, and he shoots to kill. Pearly white catching the light for the briefest second.

“Oh, I do try,” Richard replies, now one hundred percent _fake_ bashful, in a low and rumbly tone that goes straight to Taron’s cock. “Also, shut up.”

“Never,” Taron delivers, dramatic as he can muster, his hand tightening around the base of his cock and deliberately smacking the whole length of it against his lower belly. So hot. So wet. Bit messy, really. Not that he cares.

Richard quirks an eyebrow at him, and those teeth Taron wants all over him resume biting Richard’s lower lip.

“Are you…?” they ask, almost in unison. They both burst into moderately nervous giggles—and then Taron’s laughter dies in his throat as Richard looks straight into the camera and full-on, unequivocally and absolutely bloody shamelessly _moans_.

Victim: Taron David Egerton. Time of death: seventeen forty-nine.

“Aye,” Richard says, unflappable as ever. At that, Taron’s hips snap upwards almost automatically—dick buried deep in his fist, sweat pooling on his brow, a licentious groan escaping his lips, mirroring Richard’s own. “Let’s say, actually—I _have been_ up to it all morning. Last night before bed, too. Slept like a baby afterwards. Maybe should be edging myself to an inch of my life more often, eh?”

Taron considers the implications of that almost blasé statement for a second—it’s just talk, he knows, just bait for him to bite onto, really, nothing he should be falling for so spectacularly, he’s so much stronger than this—

He closes his eyes, breathes in, and promptly does fall for it. Perpetually doomed and utterly unrepentant.

(His eternal Scottish nemesis, broad and buff and scruffy, sprawled on his bed, with a hand in his hair and the other around his cock. Stroking leisurely, at first. Just sluggishly fighting off boredom and claustrophobia. Eyes closing, then—biting into the hard flesh of that ridiculous upper arm, the fingers in his hair flexing and coiling around his curls, tugging at them, his lips parting, letting out loud grunts. Dragging himself closer and closer with each pump of his big, skilled and most definitely lubricated hand on his dick, dragging a thumb across the head and flinching in pleasure and pain. Stopping right before anything really happens but coming close enough to taste it on the tip of his tongue. Repeating that _ad libitum_ , or until he finally, finally succumbs to decadence and makes a right mess of himself, potentially with Taron’s name on his lips. A lad can dream.)

“I’ve… I’ve been…” Taron stutters, sucking in a deep breath and biting his lower lip so hard he can taste blood. He forces himself to keep eye contact. He has to tell Richard. Be straight with him.

 _Not a single straight hair on your body, sweetheart_ , Elton once told him.

Quite right, too.

“Every day, Richard. Doing it now, done it every day for—what’s it been?”

“A week?” Richard offers, smugly.

“A week, yes. Every time you called. Just… your voice. Didn’t need anything else, I swear.” He’s somehow managing to sound solemn, and he doesn’t hate it. This is a serious conversation, after all. Except for the bit where they’re both mid-wank, dripping and desperate. But that’s minutiae, really. “I remember. Things. Your hands on me. Couldn’t help it. Had to—”

Seven days. Seven soul-shattering orgasms.

(Ten, if you count the Kit episode—mind running wild, one hand around his cock and that vibrating dildo splitting him open, so good he had to keep going after the first time he came, and bite into a pillow as he changed the setting and the angle and managed to come again in a matter of merely ten, glorious minutes—plus the two times he woke up hard in the middle of the night and stupidly elected to pick up his phone, hoping for, ah fuck off, hoping to have heard from Richard, and he systematically did, by the way, opened WhatsApp to find voice messages and selfies from Richard and had to, as they say, take care of business.)

He almost wants to say thank you.

“And did you?” Richard asks, bold and brash, cutting across the reel of mental images appearing behind Taron’s heavy-lidded eyes. “Come?” he offers, after a short pause and a confused look from Taron.

“Oh,” Taron breathes. He bats his eyelashes and thrusts into his hand once more, and it’s _so good_ he actually feels a content smile creep up on his face. “You know me well enough, I s’pose. Did I?” he asks, cheekily.

“Greedy bastard,” Richard growls, moving his phone a tad lower and showing Taron more of his toned, just slightly sunburnt body. The camera loses Richard’s eyes—a shame in any situation, really, except now his abs are fully on show, and Taron can see his arm flexing and his hand and forearm moving rhythmically, up and down his abdomen, and it’s quite easy for Taron to resolve that he can definitely live with not seeing the Frank Sinatra baby blues for a while, if this is the trade-off. Richard’s right, after all: he _is_ a greedy bastard. “This what you’ve been thinking of, then? This what you want?”

“Yes, _fuck_ , yes,” Taron replies, trembling forcefully as he plants his feet on the mattress to fuck his fist more forcefully. He swallows a loud whine, then finds his voice again. “Yes, that. _You_. All of you. Want you _so bad_ , Richard,” he begs—zero fucks given, because he loves it. Especially loves the effect that it has on Richard.

“Want—” Taron starts again, but a familiar voice in his head cuts him off.

_Manners, Taron._

“Please, can I…”

_May I._

“ _May_ I… see? Please, Richard. _Please_.”

Richard chuckles and groans, deep and velvet, as the camera moves further south and Taron can see the back of his hand, still and strategically concealing Richard’s cock from view. “You first,” Richard says.

Oh, come _on_. He’s asked nicely, and everything.

(That always used to work, with Colin.)

“Please, Richard, I need…”

“…to be patient and _earn_ it, love. I know I have—haven’t let myself come for days. I was waiting… _hoping_ for something like this to happen.”

Bloody hell.

“Jesus fuck, Richard.”

The camera shifts upwards again and Richard’s serious, lewd gaze tears a wanton groan out of Taron.

“Show me, Taron. Be _good_ for me, aye?”

Arousal takes complete control of Taron’s wits—head heated and heavy, eyes watering, balls drawing up and a drop of precome spurting out of his cock. He collects it with the tips of his fingers and spreads it all over his shaft, slowing down his pace, halting completely and gripping himself tight when he gets to the base, fuck, so _hard_ , he can’t possibly wait—

“Yes, Richard,” he obeys, looking straight into the camera, doing his best to appear dignified and show Richard how seriously he’s taking his new task.

(The mere _thought_ of Richard denying himself for a whole week absolutely fucking breaks his brain.)

Taron moves the phone away from his face, inching slowly but surely down, to get the rest of his body in the shot, and Richard purrs and actually fucking says it, _good boy_ , and it’s been so _long_ since Taron’s heard the epithet (possibly his two favourite words in the English language), and he has to remove his hand from his cock entirely and tug on the bedsheets as hard as he can, or else he will just do it—helplessly come all over his stomach like he’s done ten times in seven days now, and most definitely won’t deserve the title he’s just been given back, the one that rolls of Richard’s lips so effortlessly and perfectly, fuck, so _good_ —the one he wants to hold on to forever.

His cock twitches hopelessly again, and the camera miraculously catches it, and Richard makes a noise that Taron’s never, ever heard. Something feral and voluptuous, straight from his gut.

“Fuck, would you look at that,” Richard says. “Been _dreaming_ about that. You,” he adds, correcting himself. “Been dreaming about _you_.”

A liquid burst of confidence floods every corner of Taron's body. It’s sunny warm and gleaming gold, and he can taste it, too. Sugar and fire—milk chocolate and pink pepper.

“W-why didn’t you say?” Taron asks, his voice trembling as his body shivers with the aftermath of Richard’s praise. “We could have done this earlier.” _We could be together now_.

“Like I said, had to be sure. I’m selfish like that—wanted you all to myself.”

“I’m yours, Richard,” Taron unconsciously replies, as he lets the tips of three fingers brush the side of his cock. _This is yours._ “All yours.”

“Mmh, fuck,” Richard sighs, hoarse and appreciative. “You are, aren’t you? _Mine_. Now do it, touch yourself for me, love.”

Taron complies—wants to be good, so good, wants Richard to see how good he is—and finally lets his hand resume the torturously slow up and down motion on his cock he’d started earlier. Except, of course, it’s infinitely better, now.

The new knowledge he’s acquired—Richard denying himself, Richard hoping for _this_ to eventually happen, Richard hot hard and dripping for _him_ , still, after all this time.

Richard asserting dominance over him. Richard not wanting to share with anyone.

This is no ordinary wank, then, that much is clear. It’s very much no longer a selfish, indulging practice, spawned from an old habit—slow and hedonic on a good day, rushed and sordid on a bad one—and the general touch-starvedness of these weird, weird times.

No. It’s so much different, now. Taron’s got a purpose, a _mission_.

(And that’s one way to get back into Eggsy, he stupidly muses.)

Arguably, the odds aren’t really in Taron’s favour: he’s sweaty and slightly muddy from his hike, plus he’s quite needy and desperate, bordering on whiny, and very much _not_ in a put-on-a-show kind of state of mind—but he is an overachiever, after all. Therefore, he tries his absolute fucking best, and what follows is extraordinary to say the least.

There’s just something about the fact that it only takes a couple of minutes to coax what sounds, feels and looks like the world’s most intense orgasm out of Richard Madden, Taron supposes.

 _Looks_ , yes, because, thank Christ almighty, Richard does end up showing him, at long last.

It’s quite indescribable, really—piece of work of a man, toned body, legs wide, knees bent, chest heaving, somehow still managing to hold the camera up as he strokes himself into nirvana. That big, veiny hand choking the impressive, beautiful length of his cock. That voice—Richard speaking into Taron’s earphones and directly fucking with the emotional side of his brain, as well as sparking raw sexual need everywhere else in his body—telling him how fucking gorgeous he is and detailing what he’d do to him if they were together.

( _When_ , Richard says. Not _if_ —when.)

Richard getting closer and closer and closer and Taron feeling himself approach the finish line as well, but refraining from crossing it. Excruciatingly grabbing the base of his cock again and squeezing instead—mentally cursing at the cock ring stashed somewhere deep in his drawer—then curling his fingers and digging blunt nails into his quad, dragging, scratching, just the right amount of pain to counter his mounting climax because he has to think of _Richard_ , now, doesn’t he? It’s all about Richard, and the way he’s not making any sense whatsoever anymore, mumbling slurred gibberish as he arches his back and fucks into his own fist, close, close, _close_ , eyes shut and sanity long gone.

Taron talks him through it, likes to think _he_ ’s causing that magnificent eruption inside the wonderful man that someday, somehow seems to have decided to like him. That he’s Hephaestus and he can beat that red hot, fiery pleasure inside Richard into a beautiful shape—and gift him the whole fucking world too, while he’s at it.

When Richard does come, Taron doesn’t see it.

(He does see white, but only because the phone lands on its back and the front camera offers him a lovely shot of a perfectly mundane immaculate ceiling.)

He hears it, though. The flawlessly filthy sound of release, so intense Taron feels it resonating inside himself, too, and that voice—a folk song, rolled R’s, walks along the Clyde, running around shirtless and drunk in the dead of winter, sipping on whisky and pretending to understand it—that _voice_ saying Taron’s name over and over, and Taron keening with it, arching his back and fucking into thin air.

He doesn’t even bother with this hand anymore. It feels mundane, just touching himself—the earthiness, the carnality of it—when Richard’s very clearly on another plain, at the moment. Even the phone on the bed is rattling with how fucked out and enlightened he is, and all Taron really wants is a peek, just a keyhole view on Richard Madden’s post-coital bliss.

When he gets it, Taron actually hears himself gasp.

Richard is, unsurprisingly, a mess. Curls sticking to his forehead, cheeks red, chest redder, euphoria painted on the stupid grin on his stupid beautiful face. Body shaking still.

And. Well.

So. _Much_. Come.

Streaks and streaks of it, thick and white, covering Richard’s abs and chest. Trickling down his still closed fist, knuckles coated in it as he tugs at himself a bit more still.

Absolutely ungodly.

For a while it’s all Taron can see, feel, hear, think about—how he’d like to be on that bed with Richard, be able to just run his hands and fingers and tongue all over him. Lavishing that gorgeous, broad torso. The ridges of his abs. His belly button, and the dip in his obliques. Licking Richard clean, straddling him, and immediately going for round two.

When his face is back in the shot, Richard is grinning again. That devilishly alluring flash of white.

All in all, he looks absolutely dishevelled and fucked out—curls sticking to his forehead and droplets of perspiration falling like tears, a slow and delicate stream over his sharp features. And yet, Taron muses, Richard’s still, without the shadow of a doubt, the most beautiful creature he’s ever laid eyes on.

He should tell Richard.

He’s _going to_ tell Richard.

“You’re—”

“A mess, yes,” Richard interrupts him, before he can get the words out.

“Most definitely, yes. Such a gorgeous one, though.” _My favourite kind of mess. My favourite._

Richard, already a picture of debauchery as is, seemingly wants to make it worse. He all but runs a hand over his whole abdomen, palm flat and fingers spread, and it’s so filthy and there’s so _much_ of it, fucking hell, and Taron feels his own arousal awaken with a start, and before he can think about what he’s saying—

“Please, Richard, can I—” he begs, in a small voice. Barely a whisper. “Can you—”

Can’t even string a sentence together. Useless.

Richard chuckles. “On one condition.”

“Whatever you want.” _Whatever. He. Wants._

“You’re going to be good for me, this time, and wait for permission,” Richard states, relaxed and composed once again. Not even the fact that he’s covered in several spurts of his own come makes him less believable. “Will you, T?”

Taron sucks in a sharp breath. Liquid gaze planted on Richard’s. Light blue, warm as a tropical sea.

(Anything. _Anything_ for him.)

Flames licking at his insides. All senses alight. Hand moving south on its own accord, back where it belongs. Good, good, _good_. He nods frantically, because he can’t—

“Can you _say_ it, love? Like before?”

Taron can’t think, but the words come out effortlessly all the same. “ _Yes_ , Richard.”

Surely this will earn him something, Taron thinks, in the momentary flash of clarity that follows. Surely.

Richard bites his lip and delivers another diabolical smirk. Taron glances at what Richard’s hand’s busy with—and he finds Richard's tracing small circles over the taut, pale skin of his upper abs with the tip of his middle finger.

(Like a painter of sorts. The kind who only draws absolutely obscene and completely immoral nudes. With bodily fluids. What kind of painter is that.)

Surely Richard’s going to say it.

Surely he’s going to whisper filthy nonsense in Taron’s ears until he climaxes, putty in Richard’s hands, loud and unapologetic.

Surely.

“See you tomorrow, then, hot stuff,” Richard says, pitiless, bringing his middle finger up to his lips and circling the tip of it with his tongue, picking up the residues of a week of, well, _being good_. He actually hollows his cheeks as he sucks on it as if it was, what, bloody white chocolate or something. “Have a lovely dinner, eh?”

Last shadow of a smirk, an air kiss, and Richard signs off—hangs up, before Taron even has the time to frown in outrage and call injustice. Hell, before he even has the time to _blink_.

(He’s bemused and very, very secretly also amused, endeared and ecstatic—because this is Richard, and this is one the games they used to play, and it feels like everything’s back where it belongs.)

He just lies there, then. Naked on his bed. Cock awake and demanding. Hand still hopefully closed around it, as if it’s absolutely positive this is just a dirty joke—as if it knows what Taron himself suspects but is increasingly less sure it will happen.

_Richard’s coming back._

Taron closes his eyes, then, and plays the video call back in his mind, letting himself spiral into the familiar black hole of his wicked imagination. Electricity flicking through every cell of his body as he thoughtlessly starts tossing one off to the mental—but also very real—image of Richard Madden, naked on his bed and covered in a sizeable amount of his own come.

He gets himself extremely fucking close in a matter of just a couple of minutes. It takes so little to set him off, these days.

_Richard will be back. Any minute now._

Richard doesn’t come back, and Taron almost, _almost_ forgets himself.

Almost there—he can feel it prickling everywhere in his body, head to toe, he’s so close.

Almost there. But not quite.

Suddenly, a text alert. A distant ring and a buzz. Sweet noise he can grasp at, climb it like a thick, sturdy rope and let himself out of the pit of dark lust—and _disobedience_ , he fleetingly thinks—that he’s dug himself in.

He grunts in grateful dissatisfaction, and he opens his eyes again. Ridiculously enough, he makes a point of whopping the back of his right hand with his left to get it away, away from his dick, and picks his phone back up. The screen lights up to greet him, and he unlocks it with a stupid smile.

One message, two words.

**_good boy_ **

Right as he’s finishing drying his hair, thinking to shave it all off (a proper shave—not just hair trimmer, actual shaving cream and a Gillette five-blade razor), then squeezing into a pair of clean pants and ten-year old trackies, then cursing himself, then cursing Richard, then getting lost in his own head for the umpteenth time today—right then, Tina calls out.

For the first time in seven days, Taron sits down to eat dinner with his family on time. Best night for it, too: he might have the bluest balls in the land, but his mam’s made bara brith for pudding, and the balance of the universe is momentarily restored.

However—

 _I absolutely hate you_ , he texts Richard before bed.

_call me back_

**_night night, Taron_ **

_wanker_

**_how’d that old saying go?_ **

**_the one about the pot calling the kettle black?_ **

_ha-ha_

Richard, for some reason in weird mood for classics and old man sayings, sends him a link to Aesop’s fable _The Huntsman and the Fisherman_. Taron reads it. Gets to the moral— _abstain and enjoy._ He audibly snorts, and starts typing out a sassy comeback.

Then, Richard sends him a barely sweaty post-run selfie (not one hair out of place), and Taron has to keep his finger on the backspace button until the text box is blank once more.

He knows how this bit goes. He just needs to write two, very simple words. 

_yes, Richard_

Hits send. Waits.

Another pic comes his way—POV shot of Richard’s crotch, and the quite conspicuous hard-on that his grey shorts do absolutely nothing to conceal—with a caption.

**_good boy, Taron_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~mildly~~ NSFW visual for that last thing Richard sends Taron can be found [here](https://66.media.tumblr.com/3fe39442ed0e2ee3396a5af44addfc61/tumblr_p2xebn8o531veopy8o1_1280.jpg). You're welcome. I guess. (You are. Very.)
> 
> (also I would like to thank Matty Healy for existing)


	5. I can't wait for you boy / (wake me from my dream)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _did you get me a fucking remote-controlled vibrating butt plug_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another weird one lalalaaaaaa
> 
> One small potential trigger warning: Richard Madden drops the C word somewhere in here. Can't really say I'm sorry for including that, since it's part of the day-to-day Glaswegian lingo, according to my very reliable sources. Brits say it a lot in general. I am, again, not sorry.
> 
> And maybe another one: Taron says "tart" referring to Richard Madden but also to actual prostitutes. Just prefacing that it is intended to be #bants and that Babey does not disrespect sex workers in any way. Please don't crucify me. I really love that line and I spent hours torturing myself about whether to include it or not. Again, no disrespect meant, never ever, at all, whatsoever.

It’s just a bit fun, at the beginning—Taron tells himself, switching into his favourite unreliable narrator mode. A game. A way to fend off loneliness and boredom.

(Mad lust and preventing the memory of how their naked bodies feel against each other from fading even further, more like.)

Establishing a pattern—sending each other flirty texts and raunchy nudes, oscillating between audio and video calls, playing with hands and fingers and toys, swapping roles, turning each other on and leaving each other hanging. No rules, no boundaries, no complications.

Well. Maybe just one. Not letting each other come more than twice a week.

They’re good, for a while. They’re _so good_.

Taron gets a package delivered one day. An Amazon order he _definitely_ doesn’t remember placing.

 _did you get me a fucking remote-controlled vibrating butt plug_ , he types out, crimson in the face and hot all over.

**_maybe_ **

_you absolute bloody menace_

When they try it out the first time, Richard gets so high on the power trip of being able to _actually_ control the thing that is getting Taron off—nestled deep inside, delicious hidden treasure poking at his prostate, making his toes curl and tearing wanton whines out of him—that he ends up forgetting himself, Taron, and the game completely.

Taron’s family are out on a hike, which means that Taron is allowed to be _loud_ , for once: Taron’s filthy mouth has always been Richard’s kryptonite, and Taron’s pleased to realise that nothing has really changed in that department. Richard plays with patterns and settings for just five minutes before effectively giving up, turning the thing to maximum power and having Taron squirm and convulse and honest-to-God _scream_ through the fastest and most intense orgasm of his life. He then at least has the decency to wait for Taron to come to his senses before flipping the camera around and giving Taron a shot of his desperate quest for release, so beautiful it should win an Oscar.

He tells Richard, right after— _Roger Deakins has nothing on you, love_. Richard laughs, and it’s all so wonderful, fucking hell, it doesn’t even feel real.

They get better and better, though—with the plug, with edging, with dirty talk, with a panoply of devices, with different camera angles. It’s good, so good, that sometimes Taron forgets about how much he needs—

(He remembers. Very quickly. Every time he wakes up from a particularly vivid dream, pats around the bed, expecting it not to be empty, and promptly has to huff in disappointment when he realises it is, very much so, has been for way too long.)

Then, one day in mid-May, Boris gets on telly and says the words _June 15_ —and Taron promptly starts losing his fucking mind. Counts days, hours, minutes, _seconds_. Keeps tab of every instant that passes. Every millisecond that separates him from—

*

Aberystwyth in general, but especially Tina’s house, is without a doubt Taron’s favourite corner in the whole world. The sea and the hills, music always playing everywhere, Cambrian delicacies, you name it. Aber is his happy place. Will always and forever be.

And yet, on an excruciating Tuesday night—spread-eagled on his bed, three fingers buried deep inside him, throat dry from begging, and Richard five thousand miles away, hidden inside Taron’s phone, sitting in a midnight blue velvet armchair with a hand wrapped around what looks a very eager and very hefty erection and still saying _not tonight, sweetheart, alright?_ —Taron suddenly realises that maybe, just _maybe_ , it is possible to have too much of a good thing, after all.

Being on lockdown with one’s family, even when that means living mere yards from National Trust sites, being plunged into a perfect bucolic idyll 24/7, finding delicious hot meals on the table three times a day, his dirty clothes magically throwing themselves in the dirty laundry basket and coming out smelling of savon de Marseille in a matter of hours, still isn’t always a piece of cake.

Taron never picks fights with his baby sisters (he’s thirty, and they’re in primary school, for Chrissakes), nor does he bicker with his mam’s husband (an overall delightful man and arguably the only real father he’s ever had)—but he does dare play the occasional moody teenager card with Tina.

Sometimes, he just feels that he needs it—a reminder that life is hard and that the world is not at all as pleasant as the harmonious home life in the countryside house of his teenage years and early twenties would lead to believe. Sometimes, he just craves…

(Touching Richard. So much it actually hurts, some days.)

…confrontation. Someone to stand up to. Next best thing, while he battles longing and sexual frustration. He’s snappy, unpleasant at times. But it makes him feel better.

For her part, Tina mainly rolls her eyes and lets him have it. For two full weeks, she humours him. Until, one day, she actually finds him out.

“You miss him terribly, don’t you, my love?” she asks him, sometimes in May, as they’re standing by the kitchen counter and Taron’s desperately trying to start an argument on the appropriate quantity of salt to be put in pasta water.

He’s nothing short of dumbstruck. Falls completely silent mid-sentence and feels a guilty look creep up on his face before he even gets the satisfaction to drop Jamie Oliver’s name.

Briefly ponders feigning ignorance, but very quickly drops the idea. No bother—Tina knows him like the back of her hand. He just nods, drops his gaze to the wooden board he’s been chopping multicoloured cherry tomatoes on, and lets the woman he loves most in the world cuddle him from behind and tell him it’s going to be alright.

Bottom line: he feels on edge all the time, and it’s absolutely not his family’s fault.

No, the fact that, for the first time in his life, he would rather be in L _bloody_ A than in the comfort of his own home, and would happily be swapping his mam’s to-die-for homemade shepherd’s pie for his own very much hit-or-miss home cooking is completely, one hundred percent to be pinned on his newfound but old as time obsession with Richard Madden.

*

June rolls around, and Taron’s surer and surer every day that he’s about to reach maximum-yearning-capacity.

He knows. He kind of hopes, really. Hopes that his body will soon simply give up. Just. Go off in a puff of smoke. Spare him from any further suffering.

It’s literally all he can think about. Drilling a hole in his brain, acid drip. And still, still he avoids talking about it with Richard. Doesn’t want to make it weird. Doesn’t know if Richard’s sure—

“So, I’m flying back on June 15,” Richard announces, out of the blue, on June 8, while Taron is sitting in a fairly luxurious chaise longue in his garden and watching the girls play catch with their dad and Tina watering the plants.

Taron’s heartrate spikes as he registers what Richard’s just blabbed—so casually, as if it were humdrum, a comment about the weather or an update on Nymeria’s puppy training—and he promptly proceeds to very gracefully choke on his very freshly brewed, very hot tea.

Richard laughs, low and mischievous, and runs a hand through his hair—very much on video, as he is nearly all the time, these days. He's strolling around his kitchen, shirtless. Again, a new custom, and a very welcome one as far as Taron’s concerned. Richard's natural state, these days. _Don’t you dare put clothes on ever again._ “Yeah. Thought I’d surprise ye with that. Sorry, I just—” he pauses. Bites his lip. Falls completely silent. Wide, twinkly eyes. Actually looks like the fucking Puss in Boots from Shrek for a good couple of seconds.

“Come off it, Richard,” Taron says, out loud, while grinning like a maniac and pinching his T-shirt to air dry the scalding wet spot of builder’s now sticking out proudly, right in the middle of it. “What’s that face for? Haven’t seen that one in a while.”

Is this—

Oh, _God_ , it is. _Coy Boy Richard Madden_. One of the most infuriatingly endearing versions of him.

“I kind of. Dunno, sometimes I _think_. Of you. Of—” Another pause. Urgent, piercing blue gaze. Taron puts his mug down on the hot wooden garden deck and gets up from his seat. Walks back inside, settles on the couch. Gives Richard time to finally finish his sentence. “Of us.”

“Haven’t thought of much else myself, lately. To be fair,” Taron says, honest, earnest, weight off his chest, drawing his first full breath in weeks.

Richard sits down on a stool and rests his head on his hand, elbow propped on the dark grey granite kitchen island. Bicep naturally curled.

(Could he just. Would it be possible for him to just. Would it be that much trouble for him to just— _not_.)

“Just like you to distract me while we’re finally having a serious conversation. I swear to God, Madden—you are _trouble_ , you are.”

“Knew it. You just want me for my hot, hot body, don’t you,” Richard asks, not a question, quirking an eyebrow.

“Guilty as charged, I’m afraid.” Taron huffs and shakes his head. He bends a little, into Richard somehow, even if Richard’s just in his stupid phone. Elbow on his knee, hand to his face, tip of his little finger between his front teeth, as he ponders how to best voice his inner turmoil.

Richard’s just so _stunning_ , staring up at him. Sat in his ascetic white American kitchen, looking vulnerable and eager and a million other things that Taron wants to distil, bottle, and keep forever.

“Seriously, though. D’you think we could—”

“I was thinking we might—”

They talk over each other, neither managing to finish his sentence.

“You first,” Taron finally says, grinning. “The floor is yours.”

Richard clears his throat and seems to, quite literally, shake his bashfulness off. It’s a blink-and-you-miss-it kind of thing. Happens sometimes, and it is quite mesmerising, if you catch it—and Taron does, every time. That glint in Richard’s eyes. The left corner of his mouth curling up, almost imperceptibly.

“How’s Paris sound?”

Taron considers that for a second.

French. Romantic. Emotional. Overwhelming. _A never-ending spiral_ , someone once called it.

Hasn’t been to Paris in dog years.

“Hm,” he fake-deliberates, scratching the stubble on his chin and looking to the ceiling. “Depends. Which _arrondissement_ , d’you mean?”

“Mont-bloody-martre. You absolute cock.”

“I hear it’s full of tarts like you, up there. Definitely sounds like my kind of place. Maybe someone’ll finally make an honest man out of me.”

“That’d better be me, then, innit?”

“Or what?” Taron teases, lightly biting his fingernail. _Jealous_ Richard Madden—now that’s a new one for the books.

“Or I’ll go berserk,” Richard states, suddenly fierce. “On the lot of them.”

Taron pictures it. Somewhere lavish and touristy and absolutely ridiculous, most likely some strip club. Beautiful girls, beautiful boys all over him. Richard hacking through them all, plucking him from the mêlée and whisking him away.

“The French won’t know what hit them,” Taron chuckles. Then, he thinks of something. “Although they _did_ go through a couple of revolutions. Maybe they do know how to deal with this kind of stuff. De-throne the powerful, and all that.”

“They haven’t seen this one yet.”

“This one being?”

“ _All-powerful_ , they call me. Off duty, though, merely a very touch-starved Glaswegian cunt who’s got to make it up to his man for a plethora of different past, present and possibly future cockups.”

 _His man_.

“Oh.”

Richard smiles, looking satisfied. Little smug, too.

“Your—”

“If you’ll have me,” Richard says, reverting to coy—but it’s an act, this time, because he knows. He _knows_.

“Took you long enough, didn’t it?”

Richard looks down, shakes his head, waving snow white and silver before Taron’s eyes. “What d’you say, then?”

“To you? Or to Paris?”

“To me. _And_ to Paris.”

“To you, yes. To _Paris_ … also yes. Sounds like a lovely bloke. Maybe I’ll let you have a go when he’s done with me.”

“Kindly fuck off.”

“Gladly. When?”

“June 17. Already looked at flights and hotels. Just needed the green light to book.”

“Better than a PA, aren’t you?” Taron muses. That earns him a nose scrunch from Richard, who also flips him off. “Yes, yes, yes— _yes_. Emerald green, love,” Taron says, chuckling, light as a feather, heart bursting.

Richard beams at him and blushes, bless him, and Taron immediately feels an irresistible urge to smother him, kiss every inch of him and never, ever let him go.

He suddenly thinks of something. “Oh and, Dickie?”

“Hm?”

“Any chance to make it a one-way trip?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One important thing:  
> kudos to [phoenix_rose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mordwen/pseuds/phoenix_rose) for the butt plug idea. If you wanna read more about it (different context, however), please head to [chapter 8](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20255719/chapters/49589258) of their epic Madderton fic.
> 
> Now now, show of hands, everyone: who wants Paris?


	6. and there's so much skin to see / a simple Epicurean philosophy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hard breathing, stubbly cheeks, oaky tobacco, rough denim.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise, girls and gays. Back again for a last, supremely indulgent installment of this hot mess.
> 
> Without further ado, I give you Paris. Yes, they're idiots for travelling so soon after the release of lockdown. No, I don't care, it's my fantasy and I can't hear you, lalalaaaaaaaaaaaaaa
> 
> As usual, proceed with caution. Read the tags, bla bla bla.

On June 17, two days after normal life has more or less been deemed okay to resume, Taron sees it already. Starting again. As if nothing had happened. As if society hadn’t stopped completely in its tracks for almost three months.

They’re all around him—annoying pricks speeding on the A470 down to Cardiff, too-important-for-you businessmen flashing some platinum card or another and cutting the security gates line, plastic platinum blondes with too much money and too much lip filler ordering over-the-top skinny fraps and chatting shallow nonsense. Plus, even for all the meticulous planning Richard’s done, some things are still out of his hands—god, his _hands_ , Taron wants them all over himself a-fucking-s-fucking-a-fucking-p—and it turns out that Taron’s flight is one hour and a half late, so he has to endure it all for a while longer.

He’s drowning out the racket around him with an audiobook, Stephen Fry’s voice in his ears telling him about Greek mythology and making him smile. And yet, his thoughts are louder, somehow. His inner voice keeps droning on and on and on, and his mood is foul—and why the fuck is that, even, _today_ of all days.

_why are some people allowed out_ , he texts Richard, in a fit of annoyance.

(He’s been trying not to text or call too often. Hard as he can, for the past couple of days. Just keeps a never-ending tab of everything he wants to say when they’ll actually be face to face. Not waste it on virtual communications—they’ve had way too much of that already. He wants to be able to actually talk to Richard and be close enough that a whisper is plenty to make himself heard.)

**_morning, grumps_ **

_yes good morning_

_but seriously, have we really learnt nothing, fucking hell_

_what is the point, I ask_

**_my boyfriend, the nihilist_ **

**_I do agree, though_ **

**_if I may try to make you feel better—this is waiting for you_ **

The latter is immediately followed by a picture—a view of rooftops, the scarlet sail of a certain _moulin_ peeking from the right corner of the screen, the rosy hue of dawn fading in the distance.

_oh that is really pretty_ , Taron types out, softened, mellow, only partly because of Paris, most definitely because of the frighteningly but absolutely addictive reality of that b-word Richard’s just used.

He’s about to hit send, then another pic pops up. Not unlike all of those other ones, those that have been threatening to make his phone storage explode for more than a month already—eyes not pictured; glorious stubble; teeth unsheathed; pink, plump lower lip caught between them; forgotten his shirt again, apparently—but it does feel different, this time round. Almost like Taron can reach into the phone and touch him.

**_also waiting for you_ **

Taron spends the entirety of his plane ride squirming in his seat, the entirety of his taxi ride from Charles de Gaulle airport to Montmartre writhing, and the entirety of his exchange in broken French he has with a beautiful brunette at reception dithering from foot to foot, until he finally holds his key card between his index and middle finger, and makes his way through a narrow corridor towards a lift.

Only two floors, and a knot in his stomach. Only two floors, and they’re not enough to unravel it.

By the time he’s walked from the lift to the door of room 218, his whole body is shivering in anticipation. Heart beating so hard he can barely hear anything anymore. Goosebumps on his unclothed forearms. Key card clutched so tightly in his hand, it’s a miracle it hasn’t snapped in two.

It feels almost too easy, when it happens. Impossible, he tells himself, that he can just swipe a bit of plastic on a magnetic lock and open a door to find—

Details get registered one by one.

Small, cosy room. Lights off inside. Bright sun shining through the floor to ceiling window. Balcony.

Messy hair. Groomed, long beard. Shoulders. Bare chest. Arms. ( _Arms_.) Blue jeans. Barefoot.

It all gets jumbled together, for a second. Virtual reality, is what it feels like. Like he just thought up a perfect, unattainable scenario, put on a visor, and had it all appear before his incredulous eyes. Textures, colours, props—it all seems to be extremely life-like, designed to mimic it to absolute bloody perfection. Ever Richard, months and months later, is exactly how he’s pictured him.

Gut punch, then, when Richard, large as bloody life, turns to face Taron, drops a half-finished cigarette into the crystal ashtray in front of him and flies across the room, crowding Taron against the closed door.

_Fuck_ , the sheer reality of it.

Richard.

The shape of him—solid, firm, immovable.

The scent of him—home, freshly chopped wood and fireside smoke.

The way Richard leans down to kiss him—hard, fierce, all-consuming.

All of it.

Taron forgets how to breathe as he all but melts into Richard, soft lips and harsh teeth and demanding tongues and roaming hands skimming over the land of Richard’s body. What he finds are hills and valleys and gorges and mountains—hard muscle all over him, he’s seen it before but never _touched_ it, and now he gets to, now it’s all for him, and it’s the most amazing feeling in the world.

The burning desire to _just. keep. touching._ Run his fingers all over Richard until he’s got him all figured out. He wants to learn every inch of this body; explore every nook and cranny of it, worship every stray silver hair on Richard’s chest, every ripple in Richard’s curls, every wave in the sea of Richard’s irises, until it’s all forever tattooed on his conscience, burned in his memory. Ineradicable, indelible, ineffaceable. 

He wants to tell Richard how much he’s missed him, how much he’s thought about this precise moment and how it would play out, and how much Richard has absolutely nailed everything about his fantasy, like he caught a glimpse of it somehow and managed to make it happen for real. He wants to talk dirty to Richard—praise him for his insane body, say his name over and over, ask him to do things, beg, beg, cry out.

Taron _wants_ to speak, but he finds he doesn’t have the words.

All he can do is listen, feel, smell, touch.

Hard breathing, stubbly cheeks, oaky tobacco, rough denim.

A crime against humanity, really, that he needs to stop kissing Richard for the split-second it takes Richard to yank his T-shirt off his head and pin him back against the door. But he gets a moment, then. Just a brief, fleeting instant when their eyes meet and a brief silent conversation happens between them. Just a look, but somehow Taron can hear it—Richard saying _welcome home_.

(Neither of them are home and certainly don’t want to be for a while. It does feels right, though, because Taron knows very well that home is not a place but a state of mind. He’s known Richard almost two years now, and he’s never felt more at home than in this precise moment. Or any other instance he’s been in Richard’s arms, really.)

Richard doesn’t talk, either. Just expertly and precipitously strips Taron down, all electric fingertips and soft nibbling and prickly beard and wandering wet kisses. Sucks in a sharp breath, then, when Taron wakes from his reverie and plants both his palms on that glorious superhero chest and presses back against him, shoving him backward and to the right—back against the wall, the rock-hard wall of that back hitting the gorgeous black and white paisley wallpaper with a soft thud—makes a quick work of Richard’s fly and hooks two thumbs in the belt hoops of Richard’s Levi’s and sinks to his knees and never stops looking into Richard’s eyes as he descends, Richard’s hand on him, fingers tangled in way-too-long hair that he’s never had the guts to shave off, after all.

The taste of him—

Definitely like coming home.

Quite mesmerising how little it takes for Taron to get in the zone—recollections of his underwater training kicking back, high on slight oxygen deprivation and the scent of Richard and the cock hitting the back of his throat, fuck, so _good_ , exactly as he dreamed, exactly as he remembered.

Minutes of this, a symphony of hums and groans and cursing and begging—Richard Madden is fucking his face and _begging_ for more—blinking back happy tears, cloudy eyes and fluttery lashes, spit dribbling down his chin and a hand wrapped around himself, Taron’s pretty sure he could go down on Richard like this for fucking ever. He adores getting to do this, witnessing Richard coming apart before him and being the one responsible for it.

“Taron,” Richard sighs, bringing him back to reality. Taron opens his eyes again and glances upward, light-headed and enamoured with the way Richard’s looking down at him, the firm grip of Richard’s hands in his hair, that sense of belonging. “Taron.” Firmer, this time, and Taron gets the hint.

He moves back a tad, sits on his heels, looks up more intensely. “Richard,” he whispers, quietly, throat raspy but content.

“C’mere,” Richard beckons, breathing heavily and biting his lip. “I want you.”

In one swift movement, Taron gets to his feet and swept round, _want you too, want you all over me, want you inside me_ , does he even say it, not sure of anything right now—back to the wall and Richard’s face in his hands as they kiss again, deeper, more desperate, _wonderful_. Richard then just looks at him, smooth as all fuck, smug, and his darkened eyes simply say _trust me_ as Taron opens his mid-kiss to gawk at him incredulously, _you’re not really going to lift me up, are you?_ —but Taron does, trusts him, utterly and completely, thighs closing around Richard’s small waist and fingers clawing at Richard’s back as Richard does lift him up, effortless and winning, fuck, and carries him to the bed, smiling into another long, open-mouthed kiss.

Breaths mixing and limbs tangling, hushed nonsense and bruising bites, light touches and commanding eyes, until Taron is writhing under Richard’s impressive, sturdy weight, wrists pinned over his head and Richard’s free hand traipsing down, down—rough fingertips grazing the length of Taron’s cock and making him squirm some more. They continue their relentless descent, brush against Taron’s tightening balls and send jolts of electricity through every inch of his body. They finally settle at his entrance, teasing it, and Taron arches his back and says _please_ what feels like a thousand times over.

“Please what?” Richard asks, teasingly, grinning and nuzzling the trail of hair from Taron’s navel to his crotch, the tip of his nose digging in the soft skin of Taron’s lower belly—the bit that makes Taron most self-conscious and uneasy when he’s alone, pinching at it in front of a mirror. But Richard, bless him, seems to be absolutely smitten with it, lathering it with attentions, small kisses and gentle nibbling, as his fingers still circle Taron’s hole, waiting for—

“ _God_ ,” Taron groans, lost in Richard’s eyes and in the _almost_ feeling of him. “Please, Richard, I need you, I need—”

He trails off, hand tangling in Richard’s long auburn and silver curls as he arches his back and pleads with his body, too. Richard smiles against his lower belly, laughs a growly kind of laugh, bites on a more generous bit of skin near Taron’s hipbone and nods. He lifts himself from the bed, back to the small corridor where they lost their clothes. Taron watches him bend over, open suitcase on the floor, statuesque body twisting, arse round and perky and flawless, the line of his legs, fucking hell, how, _how_ is this the man Taron gets to call his—must be someone’s idea of a practical joke, dangling such perfection in front of him and taking it away immediately after, it’s going to happen, he’s sure, this can’t be real.

But it is, very much is, in fact, because Richard doesn’t just disappear in a puff of smoke, he’s there, he’s _there_ , back in the blink of an eye, his hefty presence on the bed, taking up space, close and imposing. Small, transparent bottle held proudly in his hand. Black foil packet clutched between his index and middle finger. Wicked smirk on his face.

Taron realises he must be speaking without words, _please dear God don’t ever leave me again_ , because he sees Richard’s face morphing to mirror the frown he feels between his own eyebrows. Richard looks questioning for a second, then he relaxes, smiling again, understanding—he rests the lube and condom on the far left side of the bed and climbs on top of him, covering Taron’s body with his, solid weight making Taron huff in pleasant discomfort and lips stealing the remainders of his breath once again.

(Not that Taron needs oxygen in the slightest; the feeling of Richard against him—hard muscle and sharp angles and all that _hair_ on him, Jesus, losing his mind over that one particular detail—is all he can live off, at the moment, and he’s perfectly happy to make it a permanent condition, thank you very much.)

Seconds or minutes or hours into the kiss, Richard shifts slightly and his cock settles against Taron’s, and it’s so hard and hot and thick, and Richard starts pitilessly rutting against him, mumbling something that Taron doesn’t quite catch, lips being glued together and all that.

“Beg your pardon,” Taron asks, grinning, playful, the last word dying into a pitiful whine as Richard wraps one hand around both their cocks, stroking slowly and exhaling shakily. Taron grudgingly breaks eye contact and throws his head back into the pillow, hissing and thrusting into Richard’s hand, pliant and eager.

“I said,” Richard says, in the crook of Taron’s neck, “I’ve missed you, y’beautiful fool.”

Taron grins, giddy, and pulls him in for another kiss. “Missed you too.” _Missed you for months. Missed you since before the world fell apart._

Richard kisses Taron’s smile—the curled-up sides of his mouth, the dimples in his cheek, his raised cheekbones, the lines at the corner of his eyes, his eyebrows, his forehead, and he looks fucking ecstatic as he does so; incredulous, even. Like he can’t fathom being the one who put it there—that beam that is spread across Taron’s whole face, that concentrate of incorruptible joy.

“Gorgeous,” Richard whispers. “Always so gorgeous.”

Taron blushes, goes to retort something sarcastic, mildly self-deprecating—gets immediately cut off by Richard’s hand around both their cocks squeezing tighter as Richard grinds into him once again, mission to make Taron lose it entirely well back on track. Deep blue eyes locked onto Taron’s, jaw slack, marvelling at the sight before his eyes, a mischievous look that just says _there you go, love, so good_ , and Taron wants, he needs—

“On yer front, please, if you wouldn’t mind.”

“Not at all,” Taron says, keen and pleasantly high-strung, slithering out from underneath Richard and rolling over on the giant bed, bum in the air, legs slightly spread, waiting.

He closes his eyes for a second; breathes in, out, and gives himself a reality check. This is real. This is really happening. It’s not just a vivid hallucination or a compelling daydream he’s lost in. This is really Richard on the bed next to him, Richard’s mouth planting a series of butterfly kisses down his spine, Richard’s fingers—

“Oh, God,” Taron moans, biting the pillow as two slick fingertips caress his sensitive hole and one tentatively presses in. Ten seconds after, he’s begging again, charged and sweltering. “Fuck, please, more, I can take it, I—”

“You…” Richard starts, cutting himself off as another finger slides in next to the first, no resistance at all. Taron opens his eyes and looks over his own shoulder to read the expression on Richard’s face—bemused, amused, marvelled, on bloody fire—while he pumps his fingers effortlessly in and out of Taron, curling them just right.

(The noise that Richard makes. A dragged out, guttural groan, coupled with the squelching sound of long, knobbly fingers, fucking in and out of Taron’s wet heat.)

“Yes—oh, _fuck_ , right there, mmh—yes I _did_ ,” Taron cuts him off, speech wrecked by that one brush of Richard’s fingers against his prostate. “Slept with a plug, stretched myself out a bit more before I had to leave for the airport. Was hoping—wanted to be ready, for this, for _you_.”

“Fucking hell, Taron, you…” Richard says, faintly, a third finger slipping in just as smoothly and knocking all the air out of Taron’s lungs. So delightful, the stretch, the way Richard moves inside him, the hot breath he feels on the side of his neck, the prickle of Richard’s stubble as he approaches to bite Taron’s earlobe, “…you marvellous creature, you,” Richard finishes, glorious brogue rippling down Taron’s spine, burning like a whisky shot down his throat, rising his overall body temperature by a good few degrees. He couples that with a few more purposeful thrusts of his fingers inside Taron, and Taron raises his arse to meet them, needs _more, more, Richard please fuck me, need you, need to feel you_.

And that Taron has said out loud, he knows it.

Knows it by the way Richard rubs those perfect fingertips against his prostate, one after the other, strumming him like a bass guitar and pulling strangled moans and raucous pleas from him, before withdrawing them slowly and meticulously, while kissing the hair at the base of Taron’s skull.

Knows it by the way Richard reaches for the condom next to them on the bed.

Knows it by the way Richard gasps as Taron grabs his wrist to stop him, turning to his side and propping himself up on his elbow to look at Richard properly.

“Wait. Can we—”

Richard raises an eyebrow, and one corner of his mouth. Pouts his lips slightly. Twists the condom packet between his fingers a few times. “Are you—”

“Yes. Got tested back in March. Dunno about you—haven’t gotten much action since then.” Taron shrugs, smirks.

“Not gonna lie,” Richard growls, fierce and possessive, as he bends over to steal another kiss, “kind of upset you don’t class that wee thing we had going on under “action”, love. Best time I’ve had since last Christmas.”

Taron shakes his head and chuckles, cupping Richard’s face in both hands. “So you—no-one else? And you’re…”

“…clean?” Richard finishes for him. “As a whistle, darling. Always am.”

“Alright, smooth bastard,” Taron says, against Richard’s lips, hand blindly wrapping around Richard’s cock and ripping an open-mouthed sigh from him. “Then do it, won’t ya.”

“Do what?” Richard asks, in a playful, teasing tone that says _use your words, pretty man_.

Taron’s too far gone to be sassy, by this point, but he still rolls his eyes before replying. “Fuck me,” he commands, resting this head on the pillow, over both his hands, arching his back slightly to make his bum jut out, like an offering.

He hears Richard curse under his breath and the unmistakeable sound of lube being squirted out of a bottle and lathered onto Richard’s waiting cock, and he thrums with anticipation, visceral reaction low in his belly, dick twitching uncontrollably and leaking onto the soft white hotel sheets.

Richard keeps making these noises that drive Taron absolutely insane. He just moans deliberately, shameless, growly, gruff and gorgeous, as he strokes himself, then he positions himself between Taron’s open legs and rather unceremoniously nudges them open a tad more with each knee, bending over, one hand on the bed, and he rubs himself against Taron’s crack, wet and wonderful. Taron just can’t, he _can’t_ cope with it, needs it now, needs it all, _need you, fill me up, now, now Richard_ —and Richard obliges, slides in, one slow but impossibly smooth stroke of his gorgeous cock, and Taron pushes back against him, lets him in down to the hilt, feeling every vein, every ridge of him, perfect, _perfect_ —

“Y’feel…” Richard moans, fully inside, adhering his front to Taron’s back, resting on both forearms and gripping Taron’s wrists as he expertly pulls out and immediately thrusts back in, rough, thick, breathtaking, “…so…” he continues, strangled, another hard thrust and a desperate cry escaping Taron’s lips, “… _fucking_ good,” he finishes, hands covering Taron’s and fingers entwining in a possessive, loving grasp.

He starts on a torturously slow rhythm, then, pulling completely out, waiting a full second, then plunging back in, and Taron feels every inch, the stretch of that cock he’s dreamt about for months suddenly real, and it feels so good, so _good_ he could cry.

Every time Richard bottoms out he stills—one second, two seconds, a lifetime, circling his hips ever so slightly, making Taron whine and writhe and groan loudly, recklessly, window open and the whole of Montmartre as an audience. On occasion, though, Richard mercifully pulls out and pushes back in a bit more roughly, and that is precisely when Taron loses it completely, feels actual tears rolling down his face and begs—pitiful, shaky sobs, back arched and arse lifted, fucking back on Richard’s cock, please, _please, harder, I need, you, deeper, please_.

Richard wastes no time. He lets go of one of Taron’s wrists and lifts himself up, pushing Taron’s left leg open a tad more still with his knee and tangling one hand in Taron’s hair, tugging at it, pulling Taron up right as he fucks into him more vigorously. Taron hisses, arches his back more and shifts his other leg wider, unprompted, just looking for the perfect angle, and he finds it, fuck, so, _so_ good, and he must be quite the sight, he fleetingly thinks—neck strained, back like a longbow, mouth hanging open—because Richard roars appreciatively and considerably picks up the pace, his front smacking against Taron’s arse, his other hand gripping Taron’s waist and his filthy mouth finally running free.

“Fucking look at you, you’re perfect, taking it so well, love,” Richard grunts, and Taron he feels it all, hard thrusts splitting him open and praise flooding his insides like he’s drinking ambrosia. Full, elevated. “Love taking my cock, don’t you, gorgeous.”

Not quite a question. Also, yes, he does love taking Richard’s cock, thanks for asking.

Nods uncontrollably, exhales a voiceless _yes_ , then loses his breath again as Richard splays a palm on the side of his neck. Just resting, safe and solid, as Taron’s body is shaking with how hard Richard’s fucking him.

Can’t get enough. Months of waiting for this. It’s perfect, and yet Taron wants more. He wants _more_.

“Look at this pretty neck o’ yers, sweetheart,” Richard continues, as he relentlessly rams into Taron and tears increasingly loud sobs and whines out of him. “So… mmmh. _Tempting_.”

(Richard knows. They’ve done it a few times, two or three lifetimes ago.)

Taron can’t possibly reply to that, can’t put it into words—how much he wants it, how much he’s fantasised about it, how hard and how often it’s hit him at the most random times of the day in the past few months, knocked him completely off his feet while gardening or helping with household chores—so he grabs Richard’s wrist instead, shifts Richard’s hand on his neck so that it’s closed around his throat completely.

Then, Taron reaches his other hand behind him, lets it sink in Richard’s long, soft curls and pulls him closer, lips and teeth and stubble and hot breath and pornographic moans in his ear as they both collapse back onto the mattress, Richard completely on top of him, elbow digging in the pillow, leveraging his ridiculous upper body strength to cut Taron’s breath off completely, give him what he needs.

Forehead pressed into the pillow, Taron moans voicelessly and circles his hips to get Richard’s cock where he wants it, angled perfectly to hit that spot inside him, to make him wheeze into the tight grasp of those fingers around his neck, the ones he’s pressing against to get them tighter still, light-headed and ecstatic. Richard chuckles in delight and slows down a tad, thrusts less frequent but more vehement and deep, punctuated by feral groans and praise, so much praise, _God, Taron, so good, love_.

Taron feels it flowing everywhere inside him, cock rubbing into the duvet, head hot and heavy—more, more, _more_ —blindly reaches for Richard’s flexed bicep and finds hard rock and popping veins and tugs it closer, Richard’s hand moving to cup the side of Taron’s face as he understands, shifts lower and lets Taron rest his head in the crook of his elbow. A gentle roll of hips, then and Richard stops flexing. Bites Taron’s earlobe.

“Tell me what you want.” Pulls out, slow and terrible, as he plays with the too-long hair on the side of Taron’s head.

Taron sobs loudly, loss for words, can’t, wants it but can’t talk, can’t articulate—

He leans harder in the crook of Richard’s elbow, desperate for pressure.

“No. _Tell_ me,” Richard insists, as he thrusts back in, one razor-sharp snap of his hips.

“Choke me harder, Richard. With this,” Taron miraculously lets out, gripping Richard’s upper arm again and feeling it flex again, compliant, unlocked, as if he just pressed the right button. “Please, Richard, I need—”

Richard immediately delivers— _such a good boy for me, Taron_ —and Taron loses track of reality for a good while. Can’t breathe, can’t think, doesn’t know what year or month or time of day it is, can’t focus on anything else than Richard’s cock inside him, sparking electricity everywhere in his body, that’s all that matters right now, eyes shut tight and mouth agape, _so good_ , he probably climaxes, not sure, drifts off—

When Taron comes to, he’s lying on his back with a pillow under his bum, dizzy and panting, and he feels a giant, blissful smile spread across his face. Then, he opens his eyes to find an alarmed blue gaze staring down at him, paired with a furrowed brow and a concerned frown.

“Taron? Love, are you alright?” Richard asks, hovering over Taron, ever present, ever heart-stoppingly beautiful.

Taron giggles, light-headed and silly, fucked out but not quite spent yet. Cups Richard’s face in both hands and pulls him closer. Nibbles lightly on Richard’s plump lower lip, smiles against it. “Why’d you stop?”

Relief paints on Richard’s face, like pulling a curtain and letting the sunlight in.

“You went all limp, for a sec. I thought you—”

“I just kind of, mmh, how’d you say…” Taron says, shifting down on the bed to get closer to Richard, lifts his legs to wrap them around Richard’s hips. “… _ascended_ , I guess, is the right word.” He pokes Richard’s bicep with the tip of his index finger, smirks. “Soon as we’re done ‘ere, kindly text me a link to your protein powder.”

Richard shakes his head, laughs nervously. Rolls his eyes, relaxes onto his elbows and into a deep kiss. Taron feels Richard’s cock harden between their bodies and shudders, keen.

“You,” Richard starts, dipping lower to suck a bruise on Taron’s collarbone, “are,” slithers a hand between them, grabs his cock, “absolutely,” aligns the tip with Taron’s wet, waiting hole, “ _ridiculous_ ,” thrusts in, the whole length of him filling Taron again and making his eyes roll into his skull.

Taron nods, looks for Richard’s lips, hot breath searing him, stubble bruising him, he needs it, needs _him_. They kiss again, teeth and tongue and loud, vibrato groans—Taron’s hands in Richard’s hair, Richard’s elbows on the mattress, Taron’s heels digging into the small of Richard’s back, Richard’s knees spread, and Taron’s eyes open, mouth half-open in awe.

When Taron loses himself in them, Richard’s eyes are wide and dark and smiling.

“There you go, gorgeous, that feel good? Hmm?” Richard murmurs quietly between deep, long strokes inside Taron. “That what you needed?”

“Yes, oh, _God_ you—” Taron sobs, high-pitched and strangled. “Need… _you_ , Richard. Only you.”

“Not going anywhere, love. Promise.”

As if to make a point, Richard lifts up a tad, hooks his hands under each of Taron’s knees and pushes them back, firm but gentle, bending but not breaking him, palms closing around Taron’s thighs. Richard gets deeper still, like this—angle changing again, pace increasing, the noise of hard muscle smacking against Taron’s arse and the back of his thighs, and it’s too much, _too much_ , he’s going to—

But he still remembers. That wicked game they’ve been playing.

“Richard,” he gasps. “Richard, I’m—oh, _fuck_ …” he interrupts himself again, as Richard drives inside him harder, once, twice, five times, making him completely lose the thread.

Richard growls possessively and bends forward a bit more, and Taron’s suddenly grateful for all the yoga he’s been doing lately because it’s almost effortless, being strained like this, ankles on each side of Richard’s neck and the angle changing again, better yet if possible, _fuck_.

“Yes, Taron?” Richard says, low and breathless, looking down at Taron intensely, all over him, still thrusting relentlessly and visibly relishing how much Taron’s body is shaking with the intensity of it.

“I’m gonna…” Taron starts, watching Richard’s eyes flicker devilishly. Immediately after, he finds himself groaning in frustration when Richard suddenly just _stops moving_ , the absolute fucker, and inches closer as if to kiss him again.

“Forgetting something?” Richard utters, quirking an eyebrow and a raising a corner of his mouth, teasing.

(How in the world Richard still has the mental composure to actually do this, Taron thinks, is a mystery for the ages.)

“Oh, _fuck off_ ,” Taron replies, grinning, then full-on chuckling into the almost-kiss as Richard mercifully picks up his pace again, with even more purpose this time, wrapping a warm, firm hand around Taron’s cock and starting to pump it as he fucks him.

“Brat,” Richard says, sharp but with a hint of _something_ in his voice that would suggest he’s about to completely fall apart himself. “Won’t even… ask nicely.”

(Taron plays the game still, because Taron loves the game. He also happens to love being called a brat as much as a good boy, is all. Also Richard’s hand jerking his cock… yeah. Coherent thoughts and all that? Doesn’t really have the energy for any of that.)

“ _Please_ , Richard.” He subsequently melts as Richard runs a thumb over the slick head of his dick, coupling that with a particularly punishing thrust. Taron marvels at the look on Richard’s face—all wide, dark eyes and flushed cheeks, grinning with his mouth half open, tongue flicking over those lips, chased by his front teeth and some whispered praise, _beautiful, so beautiful_ , and Taron’s close, so close, so— “Please, please, can I— _fuck_ , can I… oh my God please, please, Richard, I need to come—”

“Yes, fuck, Taron, _yes_ ,” Richard growls, but he’s choked, somehow high-pitched, and Taron knows, he knows, “Come for me, gorgeous, c’mon, do it, do it, baby, so good, _fuck_ —”

And Taron does, with a loud cry, all over his own stomach and chest, completely full and loved and golden, Richard’s hand getting him through it and a few droplets landing on his chin and lower lip, filthy—doesn’t care, doesn’t _care_ about anything other than Richard and the way Richard’s still fucking him, and his thrusts are stuttering and his chest is heaving and it’s so absolutely breathtaking when he bends over once again, Taron’s knees into his chest and lips crashing again, and Taron tastes himself on the tip of Richard’s tongue as Richard thrusts sharply three more times and spills inside him, perfect, like no-one else’s ever been, like no-one else will ever be.

Richard pants against Taron’s lips lets go of his legs, lets Taron wrap them back around his waist as they lazily make out, lost in a hazy kind of bliss, fucked out and happier than they’ve been in months.

They stay like that for a while, in comfortable silence—Richard kissing Taron’s jawline and the corners of his eyes, Taron caressing Richard’s chest and fixating on the stray silver strands there—until Richard looks at him again, a look that speaks volumes.

“Taron?”

(God. He could listen to Richard say his name for days on end, on repeat. Like when he gets obsessed with songs and can’t stop playing them over and over again.)

“Yes, Richard?”

“Would you mind… rolling over for me?

At that Taron raises his eyebrows and widens his eyes, absolutely baffled. “Did the bionic cock come with the superhero pack, or—?”

Richard smacks him lightly on the chest, shakes his head.

“No, you wanker, it did not. You, however, did come with a marvellous arse that deserves all the attention I can give it. I havnae had the chance, to, you know—”

Taron takes Richard’s face in his hands. “Let me get this straight. You’ve just been fucking the living daylights out of me for what feels like hours, made an absolute mess of me and this poor bed, filled me with your come, and now you want to _rim_ me?”

“Pretty much, yeah,” Richard says, with a side smile. “May I?”

“Depends. Will the French let us elope here, d’you think? Alternatively, I can cuff you to a radiator and fly home for a tick to go get a vicar. Your choice.”

“That a yes, then?”

Taron strains his neck to capture Richard’s lower lip between his teeth, then rolls over.

“Knock yourself out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this was the ending you wanted, lovely folks.  
> Always a pleasure to be here, I'll be back soon.
> 
> Love,  
> C xx
> 
> P.S.: May or may not have a plethora of ideas for a sequel, involving a suitcase full of sex toys. Who knows if that'll ever happen.

**Author's Note:**

> If you want to chat, you can find me on Tumblr, I'm @applesfallingfromblondehair.  
> See ya there, lovely peeps.


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